Beginning To Future
by thefluxcapacitor
Summary: 30 Moments. 30 acts of pure bliss. Inspired by The Lover's Dictionary.


beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

_Beginning._

In the beginning, it was slow to the taking, and feebly awkward. How could it not be? When love is found in a surprising place, it is always surprising at the start. Sherlock yelled too much. He always had. "I need a cigarette!" or "Shut up!" or "I need a case!" or even "I love you!"

And John was always patient and retorted with small sounds like "No, you're doing well." Or "No one is talking, Sherlock." Or "I love you too."

The awkwardness stemmed from the way John had said "I want to be with you." And Sherlock had looked at him in utter confusion for a moment because _who would want him?_ But Sherlock was rather blissful about it all the same because although his first instinct was to assume John was joking, or that he'd heard him wrong, or he was hearing things out of context, all the same Sherlock replied with "I would like that very much." And then Sherlock was too tall and John was too short but they kissed anyway.

_Accusation._

Sherlock was under the assumption that John was straight anyhow. But, then again, Sherlock was also under the belief that he was married to his work and not interested in any human being sexually. But then he remembered that while most things are too daft and too simple, love was not one of those things. It was surprising to Sherlock that he had fallen in love, and that it had worked out, but truth be told he was still drawing a blank. And so he shouted an accusation some odd weeks after their first kiss.

"But you're straight!" Sherlock had said, throwing his hands up in the air. It was just too hard for him to believe, that someone loved him. John had sighed, rolled his eyes.

"Do you really think that matters anymore? I thought I'd made it all fairly clear. I thought I'd made it clear that I want _you_."

Sherlock grimaced.

"If you're sure."

_Restless._

Sherlock was always restless. If he had nothing to occupy his time, he would simply go insane. He would shout more than usual, be ruder than usual, call John an idiot more than usual. He'd go off on tangents. "Leave me alone!" or "Come here right now!" None of it had any rhyme or reason. But then, John had figured that out a long time ago. The problem was, after they had determined that this was more than a friendship, what Sherlock started saying when he was restless was "Come to bed with me." That was how he'd occupy himself now, and John had no complaints with this matter whatsoever.

_Snowflake._

Their first Christmas together, Sherlock surprised John, as he often did. "I do love the snow," Sherlock had said, with a perfect smile set on his lips. John was baffled. It was odd for the detective to show an appreciation for much else than a crime scene and a dead body. "It is lovely, isn't it?" John replied. And then John took his short fingers and took the long pale fingers next to him in his hand. "You're warm," Sherlock stated. And then even though they were walking back to 221B and still outdoors, Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's and hugged him, and then kissed his temple. John guessed it must have been the Christmas spirit.

_Haze._

The first time they made love, Sherlock was in a complete haze. He hadn't done much sexually, he had never felt the need for it. But John brought it out in him, and so Sherlock never minded the rough kisses and the grabbing and the arching. But when the time came to them to take the next steps, Sherlock admitted to himself that he was un-experienced and overwhelmed and yet it was still a happy haze. Dizzy and sloppy and happy.

_Flame._

Once, Sherlock's Bunsen Burner nearly caught the entire flat on fire. His usual experimentation was bad enough, but whenever fire was involved John got elatedly nervous. When John had left for Tesco the Bunsen Burner had been at a low glow and when he had gotten back it was on full throttle, one of Sherlock's sleeves was charred and one of the counters was burning completely.

"Sherlock!" John had shouted, and he quickly threw his coat over his flatmate to put out the flames, and then proceeded to put out the rest of the fire overtaking the kitchen. When it was all over, Sherlock leaned over the kitchen table and said "Oops." And then they both erupted into laughter.

_Formal._

Sherlock did looks stupidly handsome in a tuxedo. Especially so in the hotel honeymoon suite. Taking it off of him was even more fun than looking at him in it though, John thought. And when they brought their hands together after as they fell asleep, the gold bands on each of their ring fingers made a small clinging sound. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever heard.

_Companion._

At first it was hard for Sherlock to figure out what he should call John. So many names. Boyfriend didn't seem correct. Maybe lover, but that made it to simple. It didn't cover everything. Soul mate was not something Sherlock believed in. Partner was too broad. But companion? Yes, perhaps that would work. And while the name would eventually become husband, in the meantime the only thing that truly made sense was "Mine."

_Move._

Neither of them wanted to say it first. They danced around the issue, avoiding. John because he couldn't lose the life they led together. The adventure, adrenaline pumped fists and more importantly the insanity that kept him awake and content at night. For Sherlock, it was the fear of losing the one thing that he could count on, the one person to understand him at all, to put up with him. He was desperate to keep that. So for a tremendously senseless chunk of time, neither made a move to say "I want more."

_Silver._

Mrs. Hudson bought them silver dinner plates for Christmas the third year they were together. They were broken shortly after. Sherlock got angry over a case and threw the whole set at the wall while John was at work one afternoon. John was not pleased, and wished Sherlock had at least left one plate so he could have thrown one back at him. Then again, an outright wrestling match between the two made up for it. And then the fist fight inevitably ended in Sherlock's bedroom.

_Prepared._

Although John could hardly believe it at times, he knew that Sherlock was always prepared for the worst. Time and time again, with guns pointed at their heads, they escaped by tiny red threads, all because of Sherlock Holmes. And it was disastrously wonderful. John wouldn't trade it for the world. In fact, he quite liked having a gun pointed at his head, so long as the gun wasn't pointed at Sherlock (which was almost never the case). At the very least he didn't mind it. That was what it was all about; the thrill. Although, John figured, just sharing a life with Sherlock Holmes should have been enough. He really didn't need to keep on nearly sharing a death with him too.

_Knowledge._

Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect. Stupid, massive intellect that no one else could compete with. John oftentimes feels inadequate, and then there are times when he's glad he's not capable of so much thought. John is smart enough anyhow. He's a military man and a doctor, he'd have to be. Besides, John thinks. Who else could be such an annoying dick all the time?

_Denial._

For an immense amount of time the Consulting Detective refused to bring to the surface his feelings for the Army Doctor. Sentiment did not suit Sherlock Holmes well. Married to your work, you say? It's fine, it's all fine. Sherlock tried everything he could. Too many cigarettes and not enough cases. He almost considered going back to his seven percent solution but then, what would that do but drive his Army Doctor away? But he would try nearly anything to keep those sentimental thoughts at bay. Mostly, Sherlock did not want his brain compromised. Too much was at stake to fall into…love. But he wasn't in love, no of course not. It's fine, it's all fine.

_Wind._

Maybe it had been the thunderstorm that had set them both off into such treacherous territory. Sherlock had slunk like a cat up the stairs to John's bedroom, mostly because he couldn't sleep but also because the rain was gentle and consistent and it had reminded him of what he was running away from. Well, perhaps Sherlock was tired of running. The rain was too fierce a reminder of the kind and selfless man upstairs. So Sherlock went up. John was already asleep, but Sherlock stood in the doorframe, knocked lightly. Like he had ever knocked before. And John turned over and sat up. Sherlock's mouth was slightly open and he panted like he had been running. And he stayed quiet. But John knew. He just knew. So he said it.

"I want to be with you."

"I would like that very much."

_Order._

John's military time had caused him to be quite neat. And Sherlock didn't much are what was neat and what was dirty and what was going on in 221B anyway. So it was up to John. At first it bothered him. Then he grew to adore the messes. It was like Sherlock had left a trail of his presence, and John certainly wanted proof that Sherlock was there, otherwise it wouldn't have felt real.

_Thanks._

Sherlock was very bad at saying thank you's. In fact, he didn't say them at all. Not when John made tea. Not when John got the groceries. Not when John said nothing in retort to his insults (even though they both knew John wasn't actually an idiot). Not when John went down on him (though to be fair, they both wanted this so there wasn't such a need for a thank you). So, it seemed ironic to John that the time Sherlock had given John any thanks was when John risked his life to save Sherlock's. John supposed this was more worthy of thanks than mundane things that normal people said "thank you" for. Sherlock wasn't normal anyway. He was perfect.

_Look._

It's just how he is. That's what John would tell himself. It's just how Sherlock IS! He isn't watching you in any special way. You're a writer, stop romanticizing every bloody thing!

_Summer._

Dry and thick, John was only reminded of sand. He did not like beaches. Summer was when the nightmares would sometimes come back. Summer was when Sherlock would hold onto him in the middle of the night, but never wake him. Just hold him until he woke himself up. And it was always much better for John that at least he woke up to those long and pale fingers, arms, pink mouth. It was just always better, at the very least. He didn't want to wake up from those nightmares alone anymore.

_Transformation._

Once they had admitted to each other that this wasn't just the type of partnership that entailed sharing meals and crime scenes, but a bed as well, things changed. They both changed. Little things. John felt lighter. He thought he could run miles and become a gymnast. Happier, he supposed that was the word. But something else. The war, his sister's addiction, all the women he had left and all the women that had left him. None of it particularly mattered anymore. His new war was catching criminals, with adrenaline pumping through him as he did so. His sister got better and bothered him incessantly. There were no women, only a man in a long coat. Sherlock changed more drastically. His usual contempt for most humans turned to a contempt of humans who took time away from him and John. His insults grew less frequent. He was bothered by others so much less. And when it did so happen that someone might call him a "freak" it didn't matter because John was always at home, and John did not think he was freakish in the slightest. John adored him, and he let Sherlock know that. That's what caused Sherlock's transformation. Someone adored him, and not a fake façade him. A real him. The true in the flesh Sherlock Holmes was adored, and he adored in return.

_Tremble._

John told Sherlock that his favorite part of his leg was the back of the upper thigh. Late at night he'd press his fingers there, or graze his knuckles up and down it. Then he'd dip around and take his cock in his hand, and by the end Sherlock would be shaking under the sheets, head rolled back, and John would admire and then slide down, exhausted just the same as Sherlock.

_Sunset._

Something so cliché. John appreciated them, thought they were quite nice. Sherlock just took into his mind the time of day sunset meant, took in the fact that most humans seemed to find the colors romantic, for whatever reason. So he had found it a surprise when John proposed not at sunset, but in the middle of the night. Nothing romantic about nighttime. But everything about John was.

_Mad._

John had a lot of patience, he had to. But, there were exactly four times when he had been so angry Sherlock had truly feared John would leave. The worst had been the first time. Sherlock had lost a case. A big one. Bigger than taking out Moran. Not one that threatened John's life but one he had invested so much time into he had thought he would crumble. So, when he lost everything, he injected. And John was mad. No, that's not the word, he was angry. No, that's not it either, he was livid. So much so that after Sherlock woke up in his bed, and saw John's hurt face that he knew he would regret this. As soon as John saw that Sherlock was going to be just fine, he stared him down, then walked out of the bedroom and slammed the door. When Sherlock gathered his strength, he followed John out, but he was nowhere to be found. John didn't come back for three days.

_Thousand._

"I will kiss you a thousand times. I will hold you a thousand times. I will fuck you a thousand times. I will love you a thousand times. For as long as you want me to," Sherlock said.

_Outside._

John realized that Sherlock Holmes on the outside, was completely different than he was on the inside. On the outside he was confident, uncaring of other's opinions. A genius extraordinaire. And on the inside he was so afraid. Of love, and of being alone. Of letting anyone break down that wall. It took such a long time. Such a long time. And it was worth every minute. But that scared little boy showered John with kisses up to his head and down to his toes. That little boy worshipped John's company.

_Winter._

Sherlock's breathe formed a small cloud, they were both panting from running. Snow began to fall and mixed in with those dark curls. John had never wanted to kiss someone so badly, but he didn't. 'I can't ruin this,' he thought. 'He's my best mate.' But the sight of that small cloud so near his own mouth haunted Watson for ages.

_Diamond._

It was nighttime. John had curled into Sherlock's side. They were watching crap telly. Finally, a night without a case. They'd been up till four for five days in a row now. But finally, tonight they could rest. Sherlock kissed John's temple, and then turned his head back to the screen. John looked up at Sherlock, and then Sherlock looked back. They stayed that way for a moment.

"You, …you know I love you, correct? I think maybe I don't say it enough."

"You never had to say it at all. I love you," John replied. And then John got up off the couch. And then he came back. And then he sat back down. And then he put the little black box on the coffee table in front of them.

Sherlock stared at it, could feel the blood rushing to his face.

"You can open it," John said.

And Sherlock did. And he stared at it a little longer.

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked.

John gave him at confused look.

"Course I'm bloody sure. I want you. For the rest of my days."

"Oh."

Sherlock slipped the ring on.

"Unquestionably, yes."

_Letters._

When John was at war, he got letters. He got letters from his parents, his sister, his friends, and lost lovers. Sherlock once found all of these tucked into a drawer in John's bedroom. He read them all while John took a shift at the hospital. Sherlock cried at one letter from a particular girl who had happened to fall hopelessly in love with John. Sherlock cried because he understood her perfectly. He never told John any of this.

_Promise._

"You can't ever do that again. Not ever. You do that again, you shoot up again, and I really won't come back. Promise."

"I promise," said Sherlock.

Then John went into his bedroom and did not come out for the rest of the day.

_Simple._

Things should have been a lot simpler. It was easy to see for everyone else, but neither wanted to destroy the delicate balance. Neither was willing. But each pleaded with a deity they did not believe in. "Please, give him to me. I'd do anything for him."

And then things got in the way. Like three years of faked suicides and therapists and a warm gun in the drawer and not having strength, and several women John went on dates with, and then nothing was in the way but there was still something in the way. And then finally. Everything was simple.

_Future._

"You're everything now. You are my future, and not just the foreseeable future. You are my future," said Sherlock.

"Good," said John.


End file.
